✦ The Modern Heiress

We lose good people by aiming old pain at the wrong target.

“We don’t have haters. We have humans who hate themselves and hate their lives and then project that into others. The hate is their own, let it stay right there with them.”

There’s something quietly powerful about letting go of the need to be liked by everyone, especially by people who are at war with themselves. Many of us have confused the discomfort of others with our own wrongdoing. But truthfully, when someone reacts with cruelty, bitterness, or competition, it says far more about their lack of inner peace than your existence.

Haters aren’t born. They’re people who didn’t process their pain and now want to hand it to someone else as punishment. That punishment often targets those who are soft, successful, radiant, or simply different. They project because projection is easier than accountability. It’s easier to laugh at someone chasing a dream than to face the shame of not chasing your own. It’s easier to mock than to mourn your own lost courage.

I used to think if I was just nicer, quieter, more helpful, they would change their opinion of me. But some people are determined to misunderstand you no matter how gentle you are. Because you remind them of what they could be if they did the work. You make them confront their own unlived potential. And that stings.

This is your permission to release the fear of being disliked. If someone wants to see you as the villain in their story, nothing you do will stop them. Your job is not to edit yourself into smaller pieces just to fit their broken mirror.

Some people only like you when you’re struggling, silent, or small. The moment you shine, succeed, or stand up for yourself, they flinch. Let them flinch. That’s their healing to do, not yours.

my experience

I met her through a mutual friend, a man she later married. At the time, that friend had been targeted by his own male circle. My then-fiancé and I stood by him, offering support when others tore his relationship down. But she misunderstood. At their wedding, she implied we had been the problem. Her remark was sharp, misdirected. Even her husband knew we weren’t the cause. But she chose to judge me anyway. I said nothing. Out of respect.

Later, she followed me on Instagram, perhaps slowly realizing we had been the only ones who stood with her husband. Still, the quiet condescension didn’t stop. Subtle comments. Aesthetic mimicry. Sarcastic tones.

Every time I posted something soft or successful, she posted something eerily similar, with a twist, almost like she needed to one-up it, erase it. It felt deliberate. But I remained silent. Because I realized: people like that aren’t cruel because of you. They’re cruel because of what they haven’t healed.

I once shared a lighthearted moment riding the Ferris wheel at a local theme park, just something simple and sweet. A few days later, she posted a photo of herself at a far more upscale amusement venue, but tagged the location as the same local theme park I had been to. At first, I thought it was a joke, maybe playful. But the mismatch was too deliberate to ignore. It felt like she was mocking the simplicity of my joy by staging a grander moment and dressing it up in my modest setting.

At one point, she asked about my family company. Her family was bidding for a tender, and she hoped we could support them. My family’s firm with decades of experience in electrical and construction industries, carries a high-grade license. She texted politely, but I could sense the undertone. She was curious about our background, our standing. When I brought it up to my father, he declined due to workload. After that, her tone shifted. She withdrew.

I knew then she never wanted real connection. She wanted information.

the betrayal of vulnerability

There was also a moment when I was vulnerable. I was going through a painful chapter with my fiancé, and she offered a listening ear. I believed her. I shared honestly in a Close Friends story. And instead of comfort, she retaliated, posting a quote mocking “annoying friends.” It cut deep. I blamed myself for oversharing. But the truth was: I thought she cared. I was wrong. But really, I just misjudged her character. That was the moment I stopped watching her stories altogether. Yet I noticed, she still occasionally watched mine.

Later, I shared a jewellery shopping story, nothing flashy. A soft moment. Her husband asked mine about the price. I told my fiancé to respond vaguely, humbly. Not out of arrogance, but to protect my privacy, to mirror back the distance she’d always offered me.

I shared everything with real friends: where to buy, how to save, what to invest in. But with her? I returned her energy: cold, calculated, guarded. She had drawn the line. I simply respected it. Even when she posted about her child’s birth, I didn’t reach out.

Not out of resentment but because she had never shown me warmth. So I chose peace and distance instead.

time did its work

When we first met, I wasn’t yet thriving. My parents were established, but I was still finding my own ground. I was soft-spoken, modest, not yet arrived. Maybe she saw someone easy to dismiss. Someone small. But time? Time did its work.

So when it came time for my wedding, the difference wasn’t in the cost, it was in the intention. My husband and I had originally planned a simple, heartfelt celebration. But my father, who had watched me grow through so much with quiet strength, said something I’ll never forget: “My first daughter will not be hidden away quietly.” His love spoke volumes. And so, what began as modest became a two-day celebration of family, legacy, and love.

Her wedding, from what I remember, was beautiful and elegant, held in a hotel with classic banquet-style charm. But mine became something else entirely.

It unfolded like a cinematic fairytale across two opulent days in two grand halls, where every detail felt sacred and intentional. I made my entrance through a smoky walk, mist swirling at my feet as I stepped forward beneath a canopy of lights that danced like stars. The spotlight followed our every move, and as we walked down the aisle, lights lit up in perfect sync, casting a golden glow across the path and unveiling walls adorned with cascading florals and radiant artful installations. A chandelier shimmered above like a crown, and an emcee softly narrated our love story, turning the moment into poetry.

My father, proud and resolute, invited VIPs to witness the legacy of love he helped build. My bouquet sparkled with crystals and satin embroidery, my gown was voluminous and custom-designed, and my regal veil trailed behind me, stitched with my name in threads of grace. Styled by two celebrity stylists and resting in a five-star suite, every corner of the celebration whispered quiet power and blooming dignity. It wasn’t just a wedding, it was a becoming. A bloom. A blessing made visible.

I had invited both her and her husband. She didn’t attend. But truthfully, I never expected her to, not after the subtle remarks, the projections, the little ways she tried to minimize who I was becoming. Still, there was no bitterness in me, only clarity. Because the truth is, I didn’t win anything over her. I simply became everything I was always meant to be. And that, in itself, was the quiet answer to her judgment.

In the end, there was no noise, no grand announcement, no retaliation. Just grace. Just growth. And silence. I let the story unfold the way life intended, with beauty, dignity, and a quiet lesson written between the lines: never mistake someone’s gentleness for smallness. You don’t know the garden they’re growing in silence.

Eventually, I removed her from my follower list and quietly unfollowed her. Not to make a statement, just to end the performance.

Insecure Projection

Being genuinely kind and supportive doesn’t always shield you from someone else’s insecurities. In fact, your softness can quietly awaken something confrontational in them. In her case, it began subtly, criticism masked as advice, passive-aggressive quotes mocking vulnerability, sarcastic tones in casual conversations, and curated posts that turned my sadness into silent punchlines. My confidence, even in small doses, seemed to unsettle her, as if my growth was a mirror reflecting what she hadn’t resolved. A quiet competition formed, one she never admitted to. She echoed my milestones: sharing her business license after mine, tagging extravagant venues days after I shared a humble moment on a Ferris wheel. It was never direct, but always deliberate, always louder.

My kindness, which I offered freely, became something she used as leverage. She asked personal questions not to understand, but to compare. She invited me to be vulnerable, then mocked me for it, branding me “annoying” the moment I let my guard down. I later realized she held onto a smaller version of me: one she could look down on, manage, and mentally box in. But I outgrew it. As I stepped into my full self, it disrupted the narrative she clung to. Eventually, even my silence became a trigger. My soft wins, my wedding, my career, my joy, mirrored a life she wasn’t fully living.

And though I never clapped back or exposed her, it taught me something vital: not everyone is meant to witness your transformation. Some will always see your light as a reminder of their own unhealed shadows.

silent counter-attack: why it works

Silence is one of the most underestimated tools in emotional warfare, especially against projection. When someone projects their insecurities onto you, mocking your vulnerability, copying your wins with a bitter twist, or trying to provoke a reaction, what they’re really seeking is emotional validation. They want you to flinch, to defend, to argue, because that reaction confirms their distorted belief that you are the problem. But when you meet their noise with graceful silence, you deny them that confirmation. You become a blank screen they can’t play their narrative on. Your silence breaks the loop. It protects your energy and maintains the dignity they’re trying to strip from you. In doing so, you don’t just stay above their game, you erase the game entirely.

According to Verywell Mind, projection is an unconscious defense mechanism where individuals attribute their own unwanted feelings, thoughts, or traits onto someone else (Raypole, 2022). By refusing to engage, you cut off the emotional fuel projection needs to survive, because without reaction, their narrative collapses on itself.

📚 Raypole, C. (2022). What is projection? Psychology, definition, and examples. Verywell Mind.

People transfer parts of themselves they dislike or feel ashamed of onto others. When someone sees your joy, softness, or success and mocks it, they aren’t reacting to you, they’re reacting to what you activate in them. Your silence worked because you denied them emotional engagement, which is exactly what projection feeds on. Like a flame without oxygen, it dies in your stillness.

Remaining silent doesn’t mean being passive. It’s precision. It’s choosing not to hand over your emotional power to someone who hasn’t earned it. Projection only has power if you absorb it. But when you don’t engage: when you don’t correct, retaliate, or even acknowledge the shade, you become a mirror too clean to hold their dirt. Over time, your silence becomes louder than any clapback. It says: I am not your mirror. I am not your enemy. I am not even playing this game. And that disturbs them more than any confrontation ever could.

Silence forces the projector to sit with themselves. And that, in itself, is the deepest form of revenge, one rooted not in vengeance, but in unbothered evolution.

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Your favorite misunderstood masterpiece,
Madam Alias Solis
Writer, The Modern Heiress